That Fate Which Condemns Me to Wallow in Blood
by V for Vivace
Summary: During his final moments, V recalls a certain night spent with Evey. Movie spoilers. Rated T to be safe. Reviews are appreciated!    Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to, I don't own Phantom of the Opera, V for Vendetta, or its characters.


Shortly after he declared his love for Evey, V began to succumb to the encroaching darkness with a very audible sigh. He was drifting away behind the mask, only dimly aware of Evey's arms around him and her heart-wrenching sobs. _Evey,_ he wanted to call out to her, _don't._ He didn't deserve her tears, wasn't worthy of her mourning.

Something was wrong.

V had felt the bullets pierce him—there were ten Fingermen with very powerful machine guns. Ten Fingermen, ten guns. Not to mention Creedy with his silly little pistol. That was more bullets than anyone could have cared to count, and each of them had met its mark if not buffeted him with unimaginable force.

So why wasn't he dead yet? Yes, he was succumbing, and yes, he was drifting. And yet he was still there, still aware of the small arms that were now tenderly laying him in the train amidst a bouquet of roses. He could faintly smell the Scarlet Carsons' gentle scent, though how he did not know. _Evey,_ V tried to whisper, but his mouth would not move. He could not seem to move at all. It was maddening and illogical to the point where he was questioning his death—what kind of afterlife was this? He realized he was bound tightly by Death's restricting arms, and yet he was still there, an awareness within the scarred and failing body punctured with bullets, naturally fighting the last bits of darkness.

"Hold it. Stop right there."

V could not see, but he could still hear, and what he heard was Detective Finch's voice as he caught Evey with her hand on the lever that would take V to his true demise.

"You're Evey Hammond, aren't you?" Finch realized.

Evey did not speak. She didn't have to speak. There was no need for spoken words to know that she was not just Evey—she was _his_ Evey. His Evey, the fearless Evey that V had shaped with a month of nearly unbearable torture.

"Then it's over."

"Almost," Evey replied. It was the first word she had spoken since she had stopped crying for V.

"Stop; take your hand off that lever," Finch ordered.

"No," Evey refused simply. "He was right. This country needs more than a building right now. It needs hope." V felt a rush of affection for her. Every word she said was a blessing to his ears. "It's time," said Evey as Big Ben chimed above them. Without further ado, V heard her plunge the lever down.

The train shuddered to life. He felt the air move as Evey swiftly left the train, caught her scent one last time—and then V was alone, rattling down the tunnel. There was not much time left… _How cruel,_ V thought. Was he truly that much of a monster that he deserved to be blown up while he was still illogically, miraculously, somewhat alive?

Amidst his confusion, V thought inexplicably of a single night, just one of the many that Evey had spent in his home. It was the night Evey had caught him playfully sparring with that old suit of armor. They had sat down to watch _The Count of Monte Cristo,_ and afterwards Evey had found out about his slaughter of that fool Lewis Prothero. She had become extremely upset, storming out on him after he revealed that the murders would continue.

_She seems to have a thing for that,_ V had mentally commented on Evey's habit of storming out.

However, it was not long before Evey had come back to him that same night. He was still sitting on the couch, watching another movie. This time it was the 2004 movie of the musical _Phantom of the Opera_.

"V?" He heard her lips caress his name tentatively. Without looking away from the television, he inclined his head to acknowledge that he had heard her. "I'm sorry for doing that. I didn't mean to storm out on you… again." Evey's lips had turned up slightly towards the end of her sentence, adding a touch of humor to the apology.

"That's quite all right, Evey," V assured her. "I shouldn't have pushed the knowledge of my fate on you like that so suddenly, but you did prefer the truth over the lie." His voice matched Evey's, serious with a teasing air to lighten the serious atmosphere.

"Your… fate?" Evey's head tilted in question.

"_That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood,_" V quoted the movie, gesturing to the screen accordingly. "_Phantom of the Opera._ Have you seen it?"

"No, but I do remember my parents leaving my brother and me with a babysitter to go watch it on the West End," Evey recalled fondly. Then her voice took on a shyer tone. "Could we watch it too?" she asked hesitantly. V was sure she was wondering if she was asking too much to watch two movies with him in one night.

"Of course." He restarted the movie and patted the area of the sofa next to him. It was moments like this where V could not thank the Guy Fawkes mask enough for obscuring his elation that he was spending even more time with Evey.

Evey had fallen asleep during the movie when the music turned gentler, like a lullaby. As soon as V heard her breathing slow and felt her body relax—she had somehow inched her way closer and closer to V without his notice (an outstanding feat indeed) to rest her head on his shoulder—he took her gently in his arms and carried her to her room. He had laid her on the bed, tenderly arranging the crimson silk sheets around her. Sometime during this, she had woken up.

"It was wonderful," Evey remarked, her fatigue turning her words into mush. "You're like the Phantom." That beautiful smile of hers tugged at the corners of her mouth again.

"Really?" chuckled V, sitting down next to her on the bed. "How so?"

"You both wear masks… you both like roses. And music."

"You forgot the desire to kill," V joked darkly. He bowed his head grimly, his wig falling over his mask. Because of this, he was not able to see what Evey was going to do next. Evey had dragged herself off the bed and wrapped her arms around V's shoulders, offering him the only things she could in that moment—sympathy, consolation, and her perspective that V was neither a murderous killing machine, a humble vaudevillian veteran, nor even an idea. Likewise, he was neither Edmond Dantes nor the Phantom. In those early days of her stay in the Shadow Gallery, it was not yet clear to either of them as to what V was to her, but now, far too late, they both understood.

V was still contemplating this when the train exploded.


End file.
